


Council of the Civilized Clans

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [34]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage girl documents her tribe's journey to an important council meeting, Royal Diaries-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Council of the Civilized Clans

**Author's Note:**

> Visual reference:  
> Colum/Father--Sean Bean  
> Oran--Viggo Mortensen  
> Camellia--Nicole Kidman  
> Elian--Ewan McGregor

_Day 1_

We’re almost there. It will be such a relief to not spend every day walking, walking from sun-up to sun-down, And to not sleep on the hard ground beside a smoky campfire any longer. I know I shouldn’t complain; to the hardened warriors of Clan Rowan, this is everyday life, and they are just thankful it is not raining, and that we do not walk to war. I am glad of these things, too, of course; but although I am a warrior I am not yet a hardened one.

I write these words beside the fire at our camp for the night. I am determined to record the events of this Council, so that future generations may see what is done at such a gathering. My younger brothers make fun of my writing dreadfully, but fortunately Father said they were too young to accompany us. Of course sometimes my older brother makes fun of it as well, and he _is_ here with us, but at least he knows to stop before I get truly angry. Mother, bless the wind which has taken her, taught me that reading and writing are not only educational and enjoyable, but also vital to preserving the past, so that the future may learn from it. Even writing such as this, which is not so very grand just yet, makes me feel closer to her.

Father was watching me across the fire, but when I looked up he turned back to speaking with Oran. I think seeing me write so must also remind him of Mother. It has been almost ten years since she was carried off by the fever, leaving me and my two younger brothers. And my older brother as well, from her previous husband. Father once said he was surprised I remembered her, I was so young when she died, but how can I ever forget her laughing eyes, her long shining hair, her elegant hands that taught me to form letters?

Sometimes it seems to me that Father himself has forgotten. At least, he is enchanted with a foreign slave who is nothing at all like Mother. Her name is Camellia—a messy, inelegant name that suits her well, with her messy red curls and lopsided smile. I am no innocent maid, to not know why Father shares his tent with a slave girl, and there have been several since Mother left us, but none have wrapped their pale hands around his heart before. He would not even part with her to go to this Council—she walks along with us every day, shielding her sickly pale skin from the sun with a wide-brimmed hat.

But I must not get off subject here. In just a day or two we shall arrive at the gathering place for the Council of the Civilized Clans. This Council is held every three years at the Valley of the Moon, which is quite a long way from Rowan. We have walked every day for two weeks to get here, and when it ends we will walk every day for two weeks to get home. But the Council is a very important event, Father says, well worth the time and effort it takes to get there. It is where all the civilized tribes from around the world gather, to speak with one another and trade goods and information. It is also our chance to speak with the Professor and listen to his wisdom—Father says that despite his youth the Professor is very wise and knowledgeable, and even more ambitious than his father was.

I am very anxious to meet this Professor, and I am quite curious about the other tribes as well. Elian has told me many wild stories of them from when he attended the previous Council, but I must admit I do not fully believe him. Perhaps I must just see the wonders for myself.

I must go to sleep now, if I am to outmarch Camellia tomorrow.

 

_Day 2_

We pause only to eat our noon meal, but I must spend a few minutes recording what has happened this morning. As we have neared the Council site we have met one or two other tribes, though none very exotic. Also we have seen a few peasants in their fields, odd-looking folk with browned skin and jet-black hair and eyes that are oval instead of round. Some stopped their work to watch us pass by, but many barely glanced up. I suppose they must have seen many foreign tribes lately.

This morning we crossed a river and came out on a hard-packed dirt road, and we have seen many more people along this main path. Early in the day we came upon a flustered farmer whose cart full of hard produce had overturned. Everyone immediately helped set the cart aright and pick up the spilled goods, and in gratitude he gave us each some of his fruit. He called one an “apple,” which did not translate through our magic pendants, though the rest of his speech did. They are about the size of Father’s fist, firm but juicy and sweet. I hope we will find more.

Then at mid-morning we met another tribe going to the Council. We halted while Father spoke to their chief and the rest of us gazed warily at each other. This tribe rode horses, and they were all men, it seemed, men with long blond hair and trousers of leather and sleeveless vests. They were all tattooed as well, with colorful pictures of snakes and wild cats wrapping around their arms. I wish the warriors of Rowan could wear tattoos. They look so wild and fierce.

Eventually we tired of gazing at each other warily and some people began to talk or share their “apples.” Oran had gone off with Father and the other chief, but Elian was keeping a close eye on me. Between the three of them I will never have any fun.

Then a boy from the other tribe came up to me. He seemed about my age, with a vest the color of mustard flowers and a viper’s tail tattooed on his arm. “What tribe are you?” he asked, very impertinently I thought.

“We are Clan Rowan,” I replied, with great dignity.

“Rowan? Never heard of it,” he told me dismissively.

I frowned at him. “We come from the North, by the sea,” I added.

He shrugged. “We are the mighty Kegham, from the hills to the West. We have defeated many smaller tribes and brought them into our own,” he boasted.

I decided I did not like this boy, though it was a wonder I could even understand his bragging—without the magic pendants made by the Professor, we would just be hearing gibberish. Of course, it still sounded like nonsense to me. “Clan Rowan does not subjugate other tribes,” I assured him loftily. “ _We_ seek honor and justice.”

The boy laughed meanly. “Honor and justice are for weak tribes,” he snorted. “Weak tribes who have no better warriors than _women_ to carry swords.”

I was very angry, and I knew my face was turning a furious red. How dare he call our tribe weak, our justice weak, when he knew nothing of Clan Rowan but had only just met us in the road? I was sorely tempted to draw my sword and show him just how better a warrior a woman could be, but I held myself back— _I_ would not be as foolish as this boy and try the peace that we all gather at the Council in.

Suddenly there was a strange voice from above us. “Think you ill of women warriors, my boy? I hope you shall meet us in battle someday, that you may know the error of your ways.” We both looked around, then at each other in confusion, until a figure dropped out of the tree beside the road. It was a woman, sleek and pale, with the dark hair and oval eyes of the peasants but a much more deadly air.

Elian immediately pulled his sword on her. “Keep to your place,” he warned her.

She laughed, a silvery sort of sound, and suddenly all the trees along the road seemed alive with women warriors, all clad in tight trousers and fitted jackets the color of leaves. Everyone in our company _and_ the boy’s started at the sight of them, with their bows and arrows pointed right at us. In return we all drew our swords, and the blond-haired tribe drew out daggers and spears.

Father, Oran, and the Kegham leaders finally looked up from their deep discussion. Father glared at us all with irritation. “Put your weapons away,” he ordered. “Elian, do you not remember Midori of the Tree-Spirits?”

Completely ignoring his sword, Chief Midori swayed her hips up to Elian and peered more closely at him. “Surely this cannot be the gawky young lad from Rowan, the one who set the stables on fire but last Council?” I glanced at Elian, whose cheeks had gone pink. He had neglected to mention _that_ adventure. “My, but what a fine man you have grown into.” She smiled and winked at him, and his cheeks went even pinker. But he put his sword away, so I did as well.

Chief Midori winked at me as if in jest, and I decided that I liked her. “Is this the Princess of the Clan, the fierce warrior I heard so much about when last I met you, Chief Colum?” she asked my father, and I blushed a bit. I _want_ to be a fierce warrior for Rowan, but I do not think I have made it yet.

Nonetheless, Father looked very proud as he joined us. “It is indeed. Not only will she be a brave leader, but a fine historian as well,” he told them. I was surprised—how did he know that was why I had started this journal?

I was introduced to the Chief of Kegham, who was a rather old man for a warrior, I thought. His hair was still blond, but his face was as lined as Grand-Uncle Owen’s—he was the oldest person I had ever known, until he died two winters ago. The boy I had been talking to was the chief’s grandson Ny, who was not nearly so boastful when his elders were near.

After a few more pleasantries were exchanged, the three tribes went their separate ways. The Tree-Spirits were watching the roads leading to the meeting place, the Great Crescent in the Valley of the Moon; the Kegham, with their heavy horses, must stick to the same roads. But we of Rowan, as walkers, can cut across meadows and between fields without doing any damage.

I must ask Elian about this stable-burning incident.

 

_Day 2—evening_

We sit around our campfires again, eating the game caught earlier. We take only small birds and rodents, things that are quite common, so as not to bring any hardship on the local people. Father talks more of business now; Oran has been out scouting the nearby area to see what other tribes are about, and he and Father discuss them in tones too low for me to catch.

Oran is not so old as my father, but he has been his right hand for as long as I can remember. He is no relative, not even a born member of the Clan. They say that one day he just rode in to our settlement and offered Father his services, and here he has been ever since.

He is tall and dark and very mysterious, and his expression is often serious. Some say unkind things about him behind back—that some horrible crime rests on his shoulders, or that he has no love for people—but I think perhaps he is just more thoughtful than others about the problems of our world.

Imagine one of my brothers reading this! They would tease me horribly, for when I was much, _much_ younger I declared I was in love with Oran and planned to marry him. That made him smile, the first smile I had ever seen on him, but he did not follow it with mocking laughter as others did. Instead he picked me up so I was as tall as he—a great height for one so very, _very_ young—and told me he would be honored. When I was older.

I have not nursed a romantic love for him since that day, or anything else so silly and dramatic; instead I remember how kindly he humored me and thank him for it. And he doesn’t let my brothers continue to tease me about it. I hope that someday he will find a person to make him smile more.

 

_Day ??_

I must record whom I met today, in case it is of interest later.

I was with Ny again, that obnoxious boy. Sometimes he’s alright, and then he seems to realize he’s been nice or helpful and does something unpleasant to make up for it. We were walking among the tents when suddenly he yanked me behind one and peered around it as though hiding from something.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked impatiently.

Ny glared at me. “Shh!” he hissed. “I’m trying to help you. It amazes me how little you of Rowan know about the world,” he added, a comment which never failed to irritate me. The Kegham did not sound like a very worldly tribe themselves, so I wondered sometimes if Ny just made up everything he told me about the other Clans.

Before I could snap at him, though, he continued in a low whisper, “It’s the Red Rose of Death.”

“What is?” I asked, newly intrigued.

He jerked his blond head towards the path we had just been on. “Take a look.”

I peeked around the edge of the tent. The only person I saw was a young woman, a redhead dressed plainly in black and white. “That’s her,” Ny whispered, suddenly right behind me.

“She looks very ordinary to me,” I told him, refusing to be impressed.

“Well, she isn’t,” he huffed. “She’s cursed. Everybody knows it. Everyone she falls in love with—or who falls in love with _her_ —dies some horrible death.”

“That’s silly,” I said. “Why would she go out, then? When someone might see her and fall in love and die?”

Ny shrugged. “I don’t know. But that’s her, alright.”

We watched her for a moment in silence. She was perhaps ten years older than me, with pale skin and a melancholy expression. Although pretty in her way, she took no pains to dress her hair or person in the most flattering styles. She was just wandering, it seemed, aimlessly walking through the encampment.

“Her uncle is the ruler of an island in the north,” Ny continued. “Isn’t that where the Rowan come from?” I ignored yet another jab at my ignorance of other tribes. Father and Oran must know these things, surely—they just hadn’t bothered to tell me yet. “He probably brings her here and has her walk about to attract powerful suitors for her, someone he can make an alliance with.”

“That’s stupid,” I said. “He wouldn’t make much of an ally if he died when he fell in love with her.”

“ _That’s_ stupid,” Ny countered. “You don’t have to be in love with someone, to marry them.” The woman had stopped beside the well nearby and was intent on a drink of the cool water. “Or maybe,” he added, “her uncle will try to match her with some tribe who hasn’t heard of her curse. You’d better tell your father to watch out.”

That was at least three remarks too many that I didn’t care for and I turned to him, hands on my hips. “Just because Clan Rowan doesn’t go about _gossiping_ about other tribes, that doesn’t mean we don’t—“

I stopped. Ny’s eyes had gotten huge, much bigger than was really warranted by my ire. Besides which, he was looking up and over my shoulder.


End file.
